


And Time Keeps On Pushing On

by smolder



Series: Winifred Sola Lovegood [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolder/pseuds/smolder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts might be behind them, but that just means they have the rest of their lives to figure out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Utterly Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She ended up hiring Rose straight out of Hogwarts. Pansy had had the thought already, of course. It was the perfect move to get more of the family on her side.

But, it was the girl who came to her.

Rose who came to Viperidae within business hours in a perfectly coordinated business suit looking sleek, professional, and adult – her thick mane of bright red hair tastefully controlled. Rose who had her resume with her NEWT and OWL scores as well as an art portfolio with sketches at the ready. Rose who conducted the entire interview without implying familiarity at all, without seeking special treatment.

 _So, Weasley_ , Pansy thought with a pained internal sigh.

But, as she was leaving the office, the girl turned slightly, steady and comfortable in her stiletto heels and gave Pansy a small subtle smile that was utterly knowing.

Rose who said, “Oh, and please give Uncle Percy my regards. I’m sorry you missed V’s New Year party. _Perhaps_ you’ll decide to come this year.”

Then she left.

Pansy stared at the empty doorway for a second. Weasley, yes. But, oh, this one was a Slytherin. Knew that she was qualified but was also exquisitely aware of how Pansy saw her – as another possible ally on her side. Another in to that family.

The girl was like Narcissa, but with red hair and morals.

How could she _not_ hire her?


	2. Lovegood Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Luna had been surprised in wandmaking to find that core wasn’t quite a true term. You didn’t hollow out the wood, you _infused_ the magical component into it.

It was a slow exacting process that made her realize why Mr. Ollivander had her going out and collecting components for so long from, what were deemed by most to be, dangerous creatures.

Because that was the simple part.

To start the process - once you had chosen and prepared the wood, (which was a whole separate set of almost ritualistic steps with determining factors to be figured out like proper length, thickness and such. When she had tried to explain it once to Draco and George she hadn’t been able to get past there before they had met each others’ eyes and exploded into laughter. And people said _she_ was strange) you had to find its middle. This was relatively easy with most woods but when you got into knotted ones and wands that just weren’t exactly straight (were more springy. This had elicited more laughter and she just decided to try again later when they didn’t obviously have wrackspurts infecting their brains) it became harder. And you had to be precise - you couldn’t have your unicorn hair, or such, going too far off center.

Once that was done and the wood was braced, you took your core (also previously put through another procedure that made talking to Fluffy every time you entered the forest for months until he agreed to let you have one of his teeth. In exchange for singing him Christmas carols while you scratched behind his ears – all six of them until he fell asleep of course. You couldn’t just take while he was unconscious after all. For one that would be horribly wrong and something she would never do. But also, for it to work correctly, the component had to be freely given). If the core component wasn’t previously the length or width to fit properly into its new home, it was made so. Then, you had to take the edges in your bare hands ( _the power licking at her skin – is this what being a heliopath feels like?_ ) keep a steady pull as it fought you the whole way.

Because things _weren’t meant_ to share the same space.

Finally it would settle – cooling, perhaps. Except there was no heat, just energy. (So much magical energy that she feels full of it and she wonders some days if she will transform into some kind of magical creature herself. If she has already – if anyone would really notice the difference.) That is one reason you always had to make sure your wood and core were compatible before starting, refusing to meld wasn’t the only consequence.

Early on, while attempting to try something new, the entire thing had exploded on her. Willow wood shards half mixed with phoenix feather going at high velocity around the room. One had become embed in her leg and she had gone to Hannah to remove it (which her friend did, sighing in exasperation and telling her she should have gone to the actual _hospital_ and not the Greenhouse just because she knew it was her day off).

The incident had shaken her a bit though, brought forth memories of another Lovegood woman who had always tried to experiment - to push magic.

She Flooed Fred as soon as she got home. Chatted casually about this and that – school, friends, and family. More to settle herself than anything else. Because she knew Fred was going to do the same thing. Try to figure out the things no one else explained, do things that no one else did. Mix magic and science.

Experiment.

And she knew the past Fred, the memories her daughter has that push her to this. But it was even more than that, because she knows her own memories as well. ( _A tall woman with her blonde hair in a quick messy bun, wearing goggles and bent over a cauldron. Eyes going wide as it starts to react in an unexpected way, she turns around to warn her little girl to get down. But before the words can completely leave her mouth - an explosion._

 _Not as loud as it should have been, she always thinks later._

 _Luna can only stumble forward from where she had ducked under a table and watch as her mother, covered with steaming liquid, struggles for breath a few times before it finally stops._

 _It all just stops._

 _Her eyes are still wide and panicked behind her goggles, but now they aren’t blinking. And they never will. Luna doesn’t realize she is screaming, a loud and continuous wail, until her father runs in. And then, then when he sees her too (makes it real), it is almost worse_ ).

So this sort of thing, the need, the push - to work on the edges of things. It isn’t only coming to Fred from her dreams. It is in her blood. This is the way Lovegood women _are_.

That night when Draco gets home, she tells him what happened as soon as he comes in the door. He just stops and stares at her for a long moment. Then he closes his eyes, balls his hands into fists at his sides, and just swallows hard – pushing down the emotion. Like he was taught to do.

They have dinner and he never mentions it, his manner tense and stilted. Draco’s eyes though, his quicksilver eyes, often travel down to the area on her leg, covered by gauze and clothes, which would probably permanently scar - the nature of magical components being what they were. And she wouldn’t mind the constant reminder, to always double check. That it was ok to take chances, yes. But, to make sure you were being as safe as you could. (If only not to have that tight look on his face. If only to not have her little girl end up like her - with the memory of the smell of the burning flesh of her mother never forgotten).

But later in their bed Draco holds her tightly against him, so tightly that neither of them could possibly be actually sleeping. Because even though he might not have the sorts of dreams or memories they do, he _knew_ them. Knew they wouldn’t stop doing this. And he would never try to demand it of either of them, his moon-lover or his sun-child (both so far away at times - alien and strange, yet essential to him).

And that – that lack of control, lack of knowledge and ability to protect them from everything (from _themselves_ really – is this is how her Father felt?). To not be able to be sure he wouldn’t lose anything else precious to him (because nothing had been more precious to him than _them_ ). It terrified him.

Luna squeezed his hand, her pale fingers laced through his equally pale ones, and whispered into the dark, “We’ll be careful, my Dragon.”

He let out a shaky breath, stirring her hair; his hold on her became a little less desperate. And she wished she could offer more comfort, but that was the only truth Luna could give him.


	3. Possibly Maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. Title is also a Bjork song.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

The gaps in time between letters from everyone seem to get larger and larger.

Except for Fred and James.

It absolutely sucks being the only one out of their group still stuck at Hogwarts – Ivy hadn’t wanted to even live in the damn castle anyway. It was bad enough last year with just Rose, the twins and her. All four of them were in different Houses. The twins, well, Albus and Lily were already planning on the next year when they would be moving in with Fred and going off to Muggle college as well. And Rose always had time for her, but she seemed endlessly preoccupied with putting together her art portfolio.

That should have been preparing her. Ivy shouldn’t feel so – so very _lonely_ now. Now that she isn’t being constantly surrounded by them all.

They were busy though, trying to start their new lives – jobs, apartments, food, etc. There were just so many other different priorities now. It didn’t mean that they didn’t care or had forgotten about her (her mother had gently assured her of all of this. With an arm around her shoulders and stroking her hair as they swung in her hammock. And Ivy was pretty sure she spent more time during the school year in her Greenhouse during her seventh year, than all of the others’ combined).

One of her only lifelines was Fred - it was easy to fall back into writing her constantly. It was something they did. Write down thoughts on a scrap of paper throughout the day and owl it off in the evening.

Something they had started doing when they were little, back when they used to fondly refer to her Greenhouse home as “The Jungle”. And Fred had written teasingly asking if that made her Mogli. Which had lead to lots of questions, that had only ended when Fred had gotten the book from one of her library trips with Mrs. Hermione and read it to her.

Warm memories of both of them in her hammock and surrounded by tall trees. Her head pillowed on the other girls shoulder listening to the words of Kipling.

But, then again, Fred had read to her all the time when she was younger ( _and she vividly remembers one odd time, not knowing what to do, as Fred choked over the words to “A Little Princess”. Being scared as she watched the older girl not able to stop herself from crying, but refusing to stop reading either_ ).

That was one of the reasons she was so angry at James at first, Fred _was like_ a big sister to her (the best one in the world) but she _was_ his big sister. For real. And he didn’t seem to see how great that was.

 _He_ treated it like it was a bad thing – something dirty not to be looked at too closely.

And she _knew_ \- she watched him _all_ the time.

She kept her eye out for him before she got into Hogwarts and once she entered kept it up suspiciously – not falling for his politeness.

Ivy felt she could have seen the confrontation on the pitch happening a mile away, that tension had just been building in James for so long. And afterwards, when Fred had talked to her – told her everything that happened as she listened raptly. She almost didn’t believe it – blood, fist fights, family drama, there was so much going on with that bunch.

But even if Fred and James got along now (kinda)…..

Ivy continued to watch and allowed herself to notice that although there was tension with Fred, there was much more tension just within the boy himself. He was messed up. She should just stop worrying about him since he was no longer a problem for Fred and all.

But she found that she couldn’t.

Whether it was fascination or ingrained routine, Ivy was now stuck in the habit of James-watching.

So, she was very aware when something shifted in his 7th year (her 5th). The week when he got super awkward then seemed to re-double his annoying tendency to sit right in front of her at lunch and just stare.

When he left, along with Fred, she wasn’t sure what to feel. Ivy knew she felt a huge floundering loss at the thought of Hogwarts without the girl she considered her sister (compounded on top of Hugo and V going this year as well), but without James….

…those feelings were harder to determine. There had been attraction there yes (and she always felt irritated when she saw him with another girl), but she had never been sure of him. Ivy had always felt this distrust of the boy because of his earlier difficulties with Fred. She knew they had worked that out, but Ivy was still angry on her behalf. She had never been the type of person that could let go of a grudge easy.

Honestly, she had never been one who could trust or make friends very easy either. Fred had basically been her only friend growing up – most people were too put off by how sharply she talked sometimes. (Even from a young age she hadn’t known any tact, had always bluntly told people things how she saw them.) And then Fred pulled her into this wonderful group of people once she got into Hogwarts. Ivy knows she probably wouldn’t have made these friends on her own.

But, getting these letters from him. One about every other day – and the way he writes as if he thinks she won’t really read it (isn’t actually reading each letter multiple times and carrying them around for company all day in her school bag), all the words scrunched on a page and writing whatever comes to mind. Whenever she starts thinking he is treating this completely as a diary, there are parts that pop up bringing her into his stream of consciousness. Asking her questions, going back to past conversations they had, asking _her opinion_ on decisions he is making in _his life_.

These letters – these letters, bit by bit are melting her. Making her see him _completely_ , not just what she was _looking_ for during all of her years of staring.

Ivy knows she wasn’t in love with James in 3rd year when the other girls first teased her - she might not even be now.

But…but, possibly by the time she leaves this school, she _just_ might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 4: "A Little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett is the book that Wesley reads to Fred as she is loosing the fight with Illyria for her body.


	4. Unbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
They get married in the summer and she insists on going all the way to Hawaii. Only those who are most needed are there with them – Dean's own immediate family, Pravati and Seamus. All others can be told later (their real friends won't mind (or will forgive them quickly) and anyone else doesn’t matter).

It all runs smoothly, although he wouldn’t expect any less from Padma. She wasn’t the bride-zilla or the type to go into hysterics. And _he_ wasn’t really the type to panic or do something idiotic during a stag party. (He ended up just trying to watching all the Die Hard movies with Seamus. They took a drink every time something blew up, didn’t get through them all, and had a horrible hangover in the morning.)

Nothing though prepares him for the sight before him. And Dean swears his heart stops when he first sees Padma at the end of the make-shift isle – barefoot and with her long black hair flowing completely unbound.

And while she might be wearing the red that is customary of her culture, the cut definitely is not traditional. Her tattoos that he has always adored but only gets to see in private are now all on full display in the island sun.

Her top consist of a simple piece of fabric covering only her breast, the raven and DA symbol clearly show above it. And her heavily-embroidered skirt, although reaching her ankles, rides low so as not to cover the flowers (rosemary and chamomile) curling at her hipbones and the sun on her naval catches his eye like always. When she starts walking, he can see that there are deep slits up both sides as well so the ink on her thighs is not hidden today either. Dean knows that as she strides calmly by his family will see glimpses of a lotus, mountain, and moon on her shoulders and back as her hair is propelled behind her.

Padma is always so careful to keep herself covered that to see her like this, so much unabashedly glowing bronze skin adorned with ink – it is absolutely stunning. In fact he almost thinks that he has been stunned, that he is dreaming. The location, the event, the wide-eyed looks of his family in the seats all lend a dream like air.

When she reaches the front and turns to him after handing off her flower (a small break off of a flowering almond tree – representing hope) to her sister the reality of the moment seems to come back to him with a startling snap.

She is dressed so differently but her eyes regard him in the same steady way he has come to cherish. And she leans in a bit, and whispers only for him to hear; “Today is for us. About us. I didn’t think it fair to hide who _I_ am when you never do.”

Dean smiles, understanding many things suddenly – that this is why she had wanted to get away to do this. That he will never stop being amazed by this woman and her quiet wisdom that always seems to hit him hard.

His only response is to bend down and whisper what he couldn’t help thinking when he saw her like this (what he always thinks is always stunned by his muse). The very same words that started their whole relationship. “Can I paint you?”

And Padma gives his that very same little Mona Lisa smile as that first time he asked in Seamus’ apartment. She doesn’t at all acknowledging the man that has not so subtly been trying to hurry their conversation along and get them to start the wedding ceremony. She takes her time to answer him as she always does.

“Always,” she murmurs (and it sounds like a promise, like much more of a vow then what they are doing here) and grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers. Two of which have new tattoos.

Her seventeenth and his first.

In many ways it feels like this whole ceremony is for show. That they have been married since the gold and bronze twisting filigree ink he designed (he presented the sketches to her in lieu of a ring after she agreed she would like to get married) wound around their fingers. He already feels like he belongs to Padma – is the corresponding linking balance to her (and his tattoo to hers).

But it is worth doing this (even if they both initially felt a bit odd and out of character - that it was more for his family and to be seen as married in the eyes of society than anything else) to see her like this.

And Padma seems to have an uncanny ability to calmly control any situation that she wants to without stepping on anyone’s toes. Planning sessions between his best-man, her maid-of-honor, his wife (to-be / fuck it, she _is_ his wife already), and him have turned this into something that is uniquely theirs. (And with Seamus involved he can’t wait for the reception.)

Yes, theirs.

“Always,” he repeats smiling down at her and the two of them finally turn to take their vows. Although he can’t shake the feeling (and doesn’t want to) that he just did them.

 _Always._


	5. All the Blondes Are Fantasies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order. Title is a song lyric by Metric.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

“You got my model pregnant!” Pansy screamed at him.

“No I didn’t,” Blaise quickly denied (what seemed an almost automatic response) from his seat on the couch in the Malfoy’s study.

“You rather did, Blaise.” Gabrielle said dryly from where she was lounging across the room, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Really?” he asked, wide stunned eyes suddenly trained on her and sitting up straighter.

“Really, really,” Gabrielle said. And Rose, the only one who got the reference, giggled slightly. Gabrielle shared a smile with her.

Pansy made an irritated sound in the back of her throat and seemed to barely hold herself back from stomping her foot. “What am I going to do now?” she hissed. “I can’t put you in the magazine pregnant!”

“I cannot say that I do not enjoy the implication that I am irreplaceable, Pansy. _But_ , you _can_ get other models you know,” Gabrielle pointed out to the woman who was both her boss and one of her best friends.

She only made a face at the suggestion. “Do you have any idea how _long_ it took Cissa to finally choose _you_?”

“I only choose the best,” the woman in question stated as she entered the room. She placed a hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder and gave her a warm maternal smile before sitting.

“You only choose blondes,” Pansy snapped.

“Well,” Rose said in a slow almost calculating manner, “if you need another blonde we _could_ just keep it in the family.”

Narcissa caught on first, her eyes narrowing on the girl and her lips pulled in that slow, pleased devious smile that caused many to try to find a way to back away carefully. Rose though, returned it with one of her own. And, oh, Gabrielle thought she could see now what Pansy had meant, when they were talking earlier, about the similarities in the two.

“What are you talking about,” Pansy said sharply, losing her patience.

Rose turned to her employer, unperturbed by her irritation. “V is between jobs at the moment,” she stated. And it would seem just like a random statement by the tone of voice she used, if not accompanied by that tilt of the head and knowing smile.

“And we did start our company with the help of the Veela image – the community have become one of our major investors. It would be such a shame to let that go now,” Narcissa picked up smoothly.

Pansy looked momentarily overwhelmed to have them both staring at her like that – shrewd eyes, smooth faces only marred by that subtle twist of the lips. But then her mind caught up with her and the idea registered. She would have another of the Weasley girls working for her. Another foothold in that family while at the same time being a good, smart thing for her business.

Her wicked smile caused the others’ to grow.

“I think that sounds perfect,” she declared.

“Wait, really? We’re really pregnant?” Blaise blurted out, interrupting the moment. And everyone turned to stare at him – they had practically forgotten he was in the room.

“Gabrielle, perhaps it would be best to take him home to get used to the idea,” Narcissa said delicately. “You can come by tomorrow for brunch and we can discuss your career. I believe as you're phasing out of modeling, it would be the most ideal time for you to start taking one more responsibility of the magazine.”

The fellow blonde’s smile was bright and utterly delighted, “Thank you, Cissa.” She glanced back at her shell-shocked boyfriend worriedly, “And I think perhaps you are right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 4: The "really, really" line of Gabrielle's is from Shrek...the first one. I am actually unsure at this point if I saw the others or if my vague memories of them are from the advertisement that were everywhere when they first made them. Huh.


	6. Contrasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Montgomery has to wonder if maybe contrasts can be a kink. Because when her hands that look so delicate, but are roughened from working with the tools she uses to tinker with her invention touch him – her pale skin gliding against his dark. It’s all he can do to remember to breathe.

And when he looks up into her eyes and sees the look on her face. That look that tells him that even though he might have had girlfriends before Fred (might be physically older than her), she has a lifetime of bits of memory to pull from here. When he sees that look he is well aware he is _not_ the experienced one in this relationship.

Young body, old eyes.

Fred is _all_ contrasts.

She leans down over him where they are spread out on his new couch, their shirts already on the hardwood floor. ( _Christening his new apartment. Celebrating his new job as Head (and currently only member) of the Ministry’s newly formed “Runes Department”. He was just happy to finally be employed and out of his parent’s place. It was awkward having to apparate to her apartment that she shared with the twins, whenever he wanted to see her. Now he had some space to himself – some space for them._ ) Her long hair falls forward, tickling his shoulders, creating a curtain between and the outside world. Her bra scratches his chest a bit.

Smart girl glasses, dark wavy hair, smooth pale skin, red lace, willowy frame, wicked eyes, innocent smile, knowing hands.

Montgomery pulls her tighter against him, leans the last little bit and kisses her hard, feeling her respond. The way she gives a little sigh and her body curls into his completely. The sharp press of her hipbone, the softness of her thigh, ( _contrasts_ ) until it tenses. And she shifts against him, getting some leverage again and moving from his mouth to his neck. He runs his hands down her back as the sensual gentleness of lips turns to the playful nip of teeth. And Fred looks up at him with a giggle at what she just did – the memories of vampires and much less playful biting.

They are both mostly naked, her body partiality arched against his, her glasses sliding down her nose, his body strumming. And his Fred, his Fred is looking up at him through her eyelashes and giggling.

Contrast.

Merlin, he is _so_ gone.

And he has to laugh too because Montgomery knows Fred probably has way too many contrasts for him to ever learn them all. But, bloody hell, he definitely wants to try.


	7. Passion Behind Closed Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

“Millicent,” Dennis said dryly checking his watch, “I don’t believe you stumbling out of my rooms through the castle after midnight – again,” he added. “Is quite the thing to quell those rumors you were ranting about earlier, that we’re having a secret passion-filled star-crossed relationship.”

“Fuck ‘em,” she mumbled not looking up from her tiles. “You are _not_ going to beat me at Scrabble.”

“Again,” Dennis muttered.

“What was that?” she said sharply raising her eyes in that menacing way that always instantly quieted her classes.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said mildly lifting his mug of juice. “I didn’t say _anything_ about certain pureblood witches being sore losers at muggle games.”

Millicent glared even more harshly, but he simply took a sip of his beverage and smiled blankly – utterly unaffected. She looked back down again grumbling. “I’m going to triple word score your arse and then we’ll see who’s a fuckin’ sore loser.”

“Oh, the lovely things you say to me, my sweet,” Dennis said in a total monotone. “It is no wonder half the castle thinks we’re in love.”

“Half?” Millicent snorted. “Try three-fourths and the rest is mostly total apathy or the kids who just think ‘eww teachers’ and don’t want their brains to go any further. They can’t help themselves though, the gossiping little termites. Neville and Hannah have been together forever and I still can’t stand to be in the same room when they’re together for fear of sugar overload. Blaise is expecting _a baby_ with a former underwear model. Percy and Pansy seem to be in competition for the most unexpected and longest committed relationship that goes nowhere. Pravati and Oliver started sharing a room in the castle years ago now. And Susan is with Victor-fucking-Krum of all people.”

“Face it, other than Padma, we’re the only two of the younger batch left single – although calling us all _young_ is definitely relative these days,” she finished.

“I actually heard that Padma has what looks like a tattoo around her ring finger,” Dennis pointed out.

“Do you want to be the one to ask her about it? To ask _Padma_ about her personal life?” Millicent smirked.

“Hell no,” he denied automatically.

“Of course not, because it’s _Padma_. But the thing is, she would probably just _tell_ anyone who ever simply asked. Clever sneaky bitch,” she smiled and shook her head in admiration.

“And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Creevey,” Millicent warned snapping back to the game, her voice going sharp. “Just shut up and stop distracting me, so I can concentrate and beat the hell out of you at this like everything else.”

“Ah, threats of violence – sweet nothings. I think I may blush Bulstrode, this is really too much,” Dennis said blandly keeping his face utterly emotionless. “And beat me at everything? It seems we’re deciding to continue not to speak of our Wizarding Chess tournament incident then, hmm? That’s probably a good choice. It always seems to make you a tad bit testy.”

“Ahah!” she said triumphantly ignoring him completely and putting her word down – using all of her letters even!

He simply stared at it on the board for a moment. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms smiling triumphantly.

Ever so slowly Dennis looked up at her. “Millicent, I do not contest that ‘dynasties’ is a high scoring word, but I have one question.

She waited her smile turning into a scowl as he started to grin, “Why did you have eight tiles?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 4: For those who don't know, you use seven tiles in Scrabble.


	8. Hopelessly Intertwined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

  
Fred is surprised at how easily she adapts. At how quickly she falls into this life of no magic. At how she feels no sense of déjà vu over the college campus.

It is not until she is about to hand in a paper and she sees that she has written _‘Winifred Burkle’_ at the top that the reason comes to her. She is not feeling like she is experiencing echoes of her past self, she feels like she is _being_ her past self. Utterly and completely.

After she quickly scratches out the name and scrawls 'Fred Lovegood' in loopy script with a shaking hand, she leaves. Running out into the quad to lean against a tree and just breathe. Because this – this all had been feeling so _normal_.

Hogwarts hadn’t been hard for her, the theory behind the magic – once read was stuck in her head forever. But, _doing_ the magic. Waving a stick in a pattern, saying words and having something happen?

That had _always_ felt weird. Something in her had always stuttered a bit. Asked _why_.

Here there is no why. Well there _is_. Science is all about why, but that is the point. That hadn’t been the point with magic. There was a bit of explanation but then you got to a line where it was simply _just because_ it was magic.

And with magic there was so much new to learn. Here she has tested out of _so many_ classes.

There were gaps in her knowledge of course - her memories weren’t an information download into her brain. But to remedy that she simply read the textbooks through like novels. And they had felt like them. Old familiar stories that she understood and already knew the ending to, but loved regardless.

It had all felt so _natural_. And now that very thought makes the world spin a bit. Makes her lean more heavily against the tree, just so she can feel the bark bite into her back to ground her in this reality. She tilts her head up and breathes deeply, just trying to steady herself, but her eyes trace the branches and her mind automatically goes to mathematical fractal pattern analysis.

Shaking her head frantically, Fred goes to a secluded place behind one of the buildings. Away from any prying eyes of people or security cameras. She takes out her wand with and unsteady hand and does magic.

Little floating lights, turning her pencil into a pin, spelling her name in the air (FRED SOLA LOVEGOOD - no Burkle in there, no matter how much it is in her brain). Utterly frivolous stuff.

But, none of it makes her feel like _herself_ (and who is she?). Because she never really enjoyed doing this sort of thing – magic for the sake of magic. Magic always seemed like a last resort to her. Why use your wand for something when you can do it by hand?

Feeling even more unsettled and depressed, she walks home. When she opens the door she hears Lily and Albus yelling across the apartment to have a conversation in two different rooms.

Fred stands on their door mat, lets her messenger bag fall limply off her shoulder and onto the floor with a dull thump, and just starts crying.

How stupid has she been? Because it’s this – this is what makes her different from the other Fred. It isn’t the magic, there had been magic in her past life – it’s the people. It’s her family.

“Fred, there you are,” Albus says as he walks in from his bedroom. “I thought I heard….,” he trails off as he notices her state (standing just inside the doorway, balling her eyes out) and freezes staring at her wide eyed.

And that just makes her go off even harder because his reaction is so - so _Albus_.

“Lily,” he calls and his tone is a whisper but the volume is much closer to yelling.

“Hmm...,” his twin responds after a moment from her doorway, her head bent still looking at a psychology book.

“Lils,” Albus hisses again this time somehow managing to sound both panicked and scolding.

She looks up blinking slightly. Then her gaze turns from Fred to her brother and back - she sighs, shakes her head, and walks calmly grabbing Albus’ arm as she goes by towing him along. Lily drops her book off on the sofa as she passes and approaches Fred.

She stares at her sister for a long moment still saying nothing and Fred can do nothing but stare back at wise warm brown eyes and let tears stream down her face. Then Lily simply hugs her, tugging at her brothers’ arm meaningfully, and after a pause Fred feels herself hugged from the back as well.

Winifred Burkle was an only child. She didn’t have Lily, Albus, and James. She didn’t have this.

Fred breathes hard and squeezes her sister (who reminds her so much of her mother despite the fact that the two share no blood) and feels both twins squeeze her harder in response.

Just because she has the memories, just because she has the same interests, just because she has the same skills of that woman – it doesn’t mean that she _is_ her. Because she has this. She has her family, Montgomery, and her friends (who are basically her family too).

Winifred Burkle _had_ a life and _she_ has one _too_. They are hopeless intertwined but they are _not_ the same.

“Umm,” Albus clears his throat awkwardly behind her. “Are we almost done yet? This is starting to get a bit….”

“Shush, Albus,” Lily says cuddling even more.

“But, Lils,” he whispers (something that is utterly ineffective when she is between them), “how long are we going to just stand here and hug? The door is still open and I haven't started dinner and…”

And Fred just burst out laughing (the tears still on her face) because, yes – this is _definitely_ her life.


	9. The Blood In Their Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

“But what are you going to _do_ , Teddy?” she asked.

He ran his hand through his hair frustrated and hating to disappoint her, “I don’t know GrAndy, I just – I don’t know. They try to go over it with you a little bit in school, but I never really knew then either. It’s just,” he tried to explain, “unless you go into Quidditch, everything seems to be staying still. I get so twitchy staying in one place all of the time. Maybe it’s the wolf in me?” he grinned trying to joke. His great aunt looked pained though and Teddy sighed. Some things that his friends could laugh about, just didn’t fall well with his guardian.

“Teddy,” she said as if exasperated, “please do try to take this seriously. What do you like?” she tried. “What interests you?”

The first thing that popped in his head was V because she was the first thing that always came to his mind.

The image he had just seen two days ago of her on the front cover of the magazine she had plopped down unceremoniously on his lap. She had been wearing a green lace bra and pin-striped pants. Her hair stylishly messy, one hand on a cocked hip and the other in the air making a peace sign – a V with her fingers that became the title.

V for Viperidae. A V for her.

And it _was_ totally her. He had looked up from the slow amused smirk the picture on the page was giving him to the matching one of his girlfriend at that exact moment. And he had been so proud, proud that she was working for the company she had always loved. Proud that they hadn’t just tried to cover up her personality (or tried to make her a copy of her aunt), they had embraced it.

It didn’t bother him that she was now basically a lingerie model - that loads of guys would be lusting over her. Because they had an understanding without words. One that resonated even more fully as the moon grew full. A thrum that came from somewhere deep inside when their eyes met.

And they have felt this pull, this connection, since they were children – since their first meeting (and how odd it is that he always felt it more toward _her_ than her father who has more of the blood of their kind running through his veins). He doesn’t know if he believes in the intangible fairy tale of love at first sight, but he has definitely felt the very real pull of kindred.

So, they will always be protective of each other, yes – they are of all of their chosen pack. But they do not feel the need to bother themselves with silly things like jealousy. Because they both know (have known for years and _years_ ) who the other has chosen as theirs.

And wolves mate for life.

But he knew that wasn’t the sort of answer his GrAndy was looking for. So, with effort, he pulled his mind away from V and did as she asked - thought about her question hard and seriously.

“I was never in chorus,” he started to answer slowly looking at his hands, “but I would go in their practice room sometimes.” (He didn’t add that V and him had first stumbled upon it while looking for somewhere other than a broom closet or an abandoned alcove to make out).

“They had a piano in there. I had always heard stories of enchanted harps and things, but I had never really played an instrument. They didn’t have classes at Hogwarts. I think I would like to learn.”

“You think?” she asked in a monotone voice.

“I would,” he said in a more definitive voice, “I _would_ like to learn to play music.” He looked up and she was smiling at him warmly.

“Your mother would have been so proud of you,” she said choking up. “Your father too, of course. But you remind me so much of Nymphadora sometimes. Oh,” she laughed although it sounded close to crying, “she hated that name.” She bit her lip and took a deep breath.

Teddy fisted his hands. He wanted to go to her - comfort her but he had learned to understand that the Black in her was too proud for that. She was far enough removed from that part of her family that she allowed herself this show of emotion, but she was also going to be the one to pull it back in.

“So, Teddy,” she said after several deep breaths and whipping her eyes on a handkerchief while he pretended not to notice. “What instrument do you want to learn?”

He just bit his lip and stared at her for a moment. “I haven’t figured that bit quite out yet,” he admitted.

“Of course not, Teddy. Of course you haven't,” GrAndy said shaking her head letting out a genuine laugh.


	10. An Understandable Type

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Ron slammed open the door of her study and Hermione startled making a line across her notes.

“What is it, Ron?” she asked her voice teetering between worry and annoyance.

“Krum has retired!” he proclaimed, wide-eyed shaking the sports section at her.

She simply stared at him, waiting to see if there was more. Before sighing, shaking her head and flipping her pencil over to erase the messed up area – happy that she hadn’t been using ink.

“Hermione, didn’t you hear me?” her husband asked sounding much to hyper for a man of his age.

“Yes, yes,” she said not looking up. “Victor’s retiring – about time. He’s been considering it for a while now. And you know if he wants to spend more time with Susan, _he_ has to go to _her_. She is _not_ scooting from that castle.”

There was a long silence and she finally looked up again unsure if he had left, but he was just staring at her.

“Did Susan tell you all of this?” he asked in an odd voice.

“No, Victor did,” Hermione said studying him carefully. She was unsure as to what this was about. Was he upset that she hadn’t let him know about Quidditch things she was told about before they hit the news? But she did know that the tone of this conversation had definitely changed.

“Oh, of course,” Ron said in an overly casual voice. “Because you still write each other and everything.”

And then it hit her that Ron was jealous. That the fact that Victor and her Owled on occasion, and he hadn’t been aware of it this time at least, made him jealous.

Even after two fully grown kids and almost twenty years of marriage now, a single letter from a man who she barely dated for a few months (if you were being generous) had the power to turn him back into the awkward teenager who couldn’t tell her the he liked her.

Could turn them both back into teenagers apparently, because certainly she shouldn’t be feeling this pleased that she could still make him jealous (without trying) at the age she was now.

“Yes,” she responded after a long pause busying herself straightening up the papers in front of her until the blush had faded from her cheeks. Then she got up out of her chair and approached her husband.

Slowly she wrapped her arms around his neck and he instantly put his around her waist, pulling her against him and heedlessly crushing the newspaper that was still in his hand.

Hermione smiled as she heard the paper crinkle and she looked up at her husband, running a hand through the back of his hair – loving the way his eyes closed in contentment at her touch. “There has never been anyone else,” she assured him quietly.

Ron’s eyes snapped open. “Hermione-,” he started.

“Shhh....,” she interrupted him. “Victor is a friend. I think I’m one of the few people he considers someone he can talk frankly to without them assuming he has to be a certain way. I am so glad he has found Susan, I don’t know why I didn’t think of trying to set up the two of them myself before. But,” she smiled shaking her head slightly, “there is no reason for you to worry - I’m still rather ridiculously in love with you. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”

He stared at her for a moment before abruptly squeezing her tighter and burying his head in her neck. Hermione gave a slight inelegant squeak of surprise and he chuckled against her.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he mumbled and she could feel the movements of his lips against her neck. He pulled away and smiled down at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear – his fingers seemed to burn. She suddenly felt very warm under his stare.

“What are you thinking, Ron?” she whispered looking at him through her eyelashes.

Her husband chuckled before answering. “I was thinking about Krum again actually.”

She raised her eyebrow.

Ron’s lips twitched at her implication before he continued. “It’s just I can’t fault the man his type – first you, now Susan.”

He leaned down and whispered against her lips, “After all, smart girls are fucking hot.”


	11. Content in the Background

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

It had made sense for Harry to transfer to night shift after he moved in with Seamus. With the hours the other man had to keep for the bar, the only way they would sync up was if he made the change.

The Minister of Magic had promoted him to head of the whole graveyard bunch – a subtle political move by Kingsly that let everyone know that despite all the shit that was flying around about him in the newspapers, he still had support from the top.

And it wasn’t favoritism – well, it didn’t feel like it anyway. He had almost two decades of experience at this job. Hard experience. The usual rigorous training program of the Aurors had been rushed in his case – and all the others that tried out his year.

It was trial by fire. And those that passed just got _even more_ fire, because they were rushing for a reason. The Ministry had needed people desperately to gather up as many Death Eaters as possible before they all faded back into the woodwork (like what had happened last time).

It seemed though, whether it was because he had just killed Voldemort or they thought he had some previous experience since he had spent the last seven years of his life battling these people, Harry was there go-to person. Despite his rookie status he was brought along on a great deal of the early raids after the war and they even had him take point on a lot of them.

He really hadn’t understood for quite a long while - sleep deprived, personal life fucked up, and running on adrenaline mainly at the time. But he finally figured out that they were using him as a symbol of sorts. Putting him up front and letting the bad guys know they had the person who killed their leader with them.

And it worked. It spooked the shit out of Death Eaters time and time again.

Harry didn’t know if he should feel used. But the thing was, he rather didn’t mind being used in this way. If Dumbledore and the Order had used him like this - actually taught him defense and then trusted that he was something ( _someone_ ) that was able – capable…well, he probably wouldn’t have felt so bitter about their manipulations then.

So, this many years in, Harry didn’t feel bad accepting the position of Head of the Auror Offices during night shift. It wasn’t as if he was the leader of the whole program or anything. That placement went, rightfully so, to Alicia Spinnet. Who was a total bad ass with (and without) a wand. Seeing her in action really made him proud to be a Gryffindor (and to have formerly been on the same Quidditch team with her).

It was all working out pretty well. Except for the fact that at one point, a month had gone by and he realized that he hadn’t had any real contact with his kids. And that had chilled him.

They might all be grown now – technically adults, but he didn’t want to be that kind of Dad. The one they only saw on holidays and only called on when there was emergencies or something. He had messed up so much as they were growing up and when he had been confused trying to figure out how this whole thing called "life" was supposed to work, that he’s amazed that they turned out so well (so, so much better than him). It’s something Harry tributes almost completely to their personal strengths and to Ginny and Luna’s extraordinary mothering.

Seamus tends to agree with him on this and tells him to stop brooding all the time, and instead actually do something about it if it bothers him so much. His partner is not quite the person to go to if you want someone to give you sympathetic empty platitudes.

To fix the problem, he ended up setting up a schedule - Lily actually made a physical chart which sits on the mantle. A specific day and time each week that he Floos each of his kids. It might seem cold - almost clinical, but it worked. And by setting aside this time he didn’t lose touch with any of them. In fact, Harry’s pretty sure he knows more about his kids everyday lives now then he did and any other point (something he’s not especially proud of).

Out of the four, it is the twins who seem to accept the way their parent’s lives are set up now the easiest – that is to say, they get along with Seamus the best (which is the only real barometer Harry has to judge by).

Albus, who was never been good with new people from the time he was little, seemed to already know him. Something that caused them both to grin when asked but neither of them would explain. And he is pretty sure Lily chose her major and future career based on her talks with Seamus.

With his oldest two, it wasn’t as if they didn’t get along with the man - it was just...

Fred already had so many people in her life that although Harry would have loved it if she became as close to Seamus as Lily and Albus were, he understood why she wasn’t. She smiled and laughed and seemed to feel easy when she was at the apartment, but he didn’t think his favorite bartender was ever going to be one of her standard go-to people.

James, despite the fact that Ginny had told him how much his approval meant to his son, was much closer to his mother. She was the one who had been at home with him all the time when he was little – who understood him better. And now, he seemed to have bonded much more with Angelina and Katie than with Seamus. He even volunteered at the club a bit while he was trying to get his career figured out.

‘GG Sports Club’ had had some trouble with people from the newspapers and gawkers when the news of their relationship had first broken, as had ‘Irish Pub’. In his particular case, Seamus had finally had Dean make a sign that he put in the window reading:

‘This is a Pub - We Serve Alcohol

If you are coming in just to ask about my sexuality/relationships than don’t bother.

If you ignore this sign and enter my pub anyway you are giving me express permission

to pour the puke bucket I am keeping behind the counter on you.’

A lot of people hadn’t believed him and they quickly learned that Seamus didn’t play around with shit like that. After three different reporters got covered with puke, they stopped coming.

The sign was a hit though and people who heard what happened to the reporters actually came by Hogsmeade just to see it. And then came inside for a drink.

Seamus was smart, had grown into a business person and saw this for the opportunity it was. He quickly turned the whole thing into his pub’s own little gimmick. Now, the first Friday of every month the bar is absolutely crowded as they get to read the new sign, see it put up in the window, and the old one gets auctioned off. Everyone cheerily drinks lots of beer and probably bids more than they should.

Both Seamus and Dean (although he never attends the auctions and only signs his popular juxtaposition of lovely calligraphy and snarky messages with his first name) were very happy with this set up.

So, Harry was pretty happy with his life and thought he had things figured out. Which was stupid of him. He should have known (and not be _surprised_ that he _is_ surprised) that it would have been _this one_ that slipped under the radar completely.

“Wait, wait-,” he said sitting up straighter in his office chair suddenly more awake. “Who was that last name?”

The Auror in front of him raised her eyes from her papers and frowned at him slightly. Margaret was actually a far far relation of Trelawney’s, but her manner couldn’t be any more different.

“Ferguson?” she asked.

“No, before that. The training group,” Harry demanded. He couldn’t have just misheard it, he wasn’t that tired – he was actually pretty used to night shift at this point.

“Weasley?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said gustily and flopped back stunned.

Her eyes narrowed misinterpreting the reason for his manner. “I’ll have you know, Weasley was one of the two standouts of the group this year. Didn’t try to be showy like the others. Kept an eye out for the rest of the team on all of the mock-missions we put them through without even being instructed to do so first. I was going to recommend more training. The kid is quiet, dependable, can fade in to the background….”

“Hugo then,” Harry muttered dropping his head into his hands.

“What?” his top training instructor asked, startled at being interrupted.

“Quiet, dependable, looks out for everyone else, manages to fade into the background – although I don’t know how he does that one, the boy has bright red hair and is taller than his father. You couldn’t be talking about any other Weasley but Hugo,” Harry lifted his head and smiled fleetingly at her.

Margret just stared.

“He’s my nephew,” Harry explained (that had all got more complicated technically now, but that’s what it still felt like).

“Oh,” she whispered looking down at her papers. She cleared her throat awkwardly; they worked together a lot and were friendly but Harry knew she wasn’t good at handling social situations. He was actually rather touched she was trying.

“So, you didn’t know?” she asked tentatively.

“I – I had no idea he was even _thinking_ of joining the Aurors,” he admitted running a hand trough his hair.

“Ah. Well, I still want him. Some more training in that boy and we can place him with one of our teams,” she said decisively fiddling with her papers again.

“The thing is, If we’re lucky we get two or three out of each open call we do every few years, Harry. Two or three that don’t just want to become Aurors because they think it’s glamorous - that they’re an action hero and want to catch bad guys, blow shit up, and get the girl,” Margret sighed looking up at him tiredly.

“And Hugo is definitely not the sort that's in it for the glamor,” Harry agreed.

“No, no he isn’t,” she smiled. “I’ve got him and,” she checked her notes again, “Selena Sanchez that I’m happy about this year.”

“Why is there so much name alliteration in the Wizarding World?” Harry asked the random question that he had thought many times before.

“Don’t know, don’t really care,” Margret stated gathering her papers and standing from her chair. “So. Do I have a go on continuing training?” she asked briskly as she stretched her back a bit and made a face as it popped.

“Yeah,” he said and she turned to go.

“Just....,” Margret paused in the doorway looking impatient. “Can you send Hugo in my office?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to him, I don't really get to that often.”

She smiled, her face softening slightly, and mock saluted.


	12. Finding Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Lily likes muggle college. Although she supposes adding “muggle” to the beginning is unnecessary since the Wizarding World doesn’t have colleges.

But she does like it here. Her oddity was more accepted than it ever was at Hogwarts, where she was known not only as Harry Potter’s child but as the weird one. Crazy. Loony.

If it wasn’t for her red hair, everyone would think _she_ was the one that had sprung illegitimately from Luna Lovegood’s womb. (Something that has always been a point of a bizarre mixture of bemusement _and_ amusement to her mother who had thought giving Lily her best friend's name to use as her middle one at birth would have only been a _symbolic_ gesture).

Here people describe her as bohemian, quirky and eclectic. Which were perhaps just more polite ways of saying weird, but Lily still felt warmed by how easily she was initially received into this environment. It seemed less…fake, in a way, even from the onset.

When you are the child of someone in the public eye, you learn to recognize disingenuousness from a very young age. When people are trying to suck up to you because of your parents – the way their smiles are seem to go on for too long and they compliment you too much. Agree to anything and everything you say. (And how quickly that turned when they didn’t like what her father and mother did anymore – the life both of her parent’s had chosen to live in order to stop _torturing_ themselves and be happy. Be honest and whole.).

No one knows who they are here. There aren’t constant eyes that follow them everywhere, people who yell questions on the street. No need here to be on guard for a wizard with Quick-Quill-Notes and a too wide smile trying to ambush her with questions about her family if she isn’t careful.

She had mostly went along at first to follow Albus, really. He wanted this _so_ badly. To learn science like Fred was - understand it more completely and use that understanding to apply it to their experiments. But her twin had always had a bit of a problem of being on the edge of things, seeing it so close, but not being able to quite get there without a little push.

And she didn’t want to be separated from him either. Lily didn’t know if magical twins were any different from their Muggle counterparts, but she knew she would miss Albus horribly if she didn’t see him all the time (it was hard to imagine really, they had been such a part of each other - counterpart - for as long as she can remember). There was also the fact that she hadn’t known what to do with herself either after Hogwarts. _And_ Lily welcomed the chance to spend more time with her sister.

So this - college - seemed like a wonderful and fascinating option.

But, where Fred and Albus had a clear idea of what they wanted to study, Lily meandered for a bit. She took the all of the suggested entrance classes and somehow stumbled upon something that caught her interest.

Psychology.

Mental health problems weren’t something the Wizarding World wanted to look at too closely. _Especially_ with the amount of magical manipulation that was done on people’s minds on such a regular basis. In the view of most of the Wizarding World, there were normal people and there were those that were dubbed insane – no real grey. Some peoples' minds “broke” because of curses or such, but that was “spell damage”. (Was the use of such euphemisms out of fear – a desperate need to not look at this, these people, too closely? Or were they trying to be _tactful_ in an odd way?)

It made her wonder how many people had been thrown into the 'Long Term Spell Damage Ward' in the hospital because that was the assumption whenever they encountered someone severely mentally ill. If any of the people who _were_ damaged by spells that affected them mentally, could actually be helped through treatment instead of just being caged.

Even the term “spell damaged” bothered her the more she thought about it. It was so very vague. Covered such a wide variety of things. What were the official requirements for those that were placed in that wing?

She would sit sometimes and just stare at the picture in their apartment that Fred had taken with her before she left home of her mother and her Grandfather. An awkward tilted shaking shot, obviously taken one-handed by the man in the photo. They were both laughing and looked so carefree and full of love. The very same man that now didn’t even look at his daughter because he thought she was really dead, had never _once_ even acknowledged Fred even though she had been coming multiple times a year her whole life.

And then there was Ivy’s grandparent’s. Stories told of their lives third hand because Professor Neville had never had a chance to know his own parents either before they were “damaged”. Tortured to the point where their minds were considered “broken” and they were simply tossed away into a room and given meals and occasionally toys for distraction.

Tossed off to the side, locked away into a section of a building where no one would look at them too closely - where people would forget them. And they would have been forgotten if it weren’t for people like Professor Neville and Aunt Luna. Because Ivy and Fred had told them of all the others that were there that never got visitors.

There was also the matter of the talks she had with Seamus (he had asked her to call him by his first name, said it was “fuckin’ easier than trying to figure out what we would preface it with or something else entirely”). He told her how it was more than just that obvious shit (his word) there were also all the people who were messed up from the War or just messed up by life in general. All the time, he had people coming in to his pub that would just go on and on about these problems they had (family, illness, work, relationships, abuse, guilt, memories) because they had no other forum.

It’s not that Seamus didn’t feel bad for them, but there wasn’t anything he could do but listen. And that’s all that seemed to be needed to actually help some of them. Others – others really should probably have something more than the simple ear he could provide. There just wasn’t anything around in this fucked up community (again his words…mostly).

It was - it was an idea. A direction for her life that felt right to her. She had always been good at reading people and this was a way for her to help. Work that needed doing.

Lily wasn’t sure if the Wizarding World would accept this sort of help from _her_. Even though it so desperately seemed to need it from _someone_. But all she can do right now is learn everything she possibly could – the rest will have to sort itself out later.


	13. Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Oliver stares. It’s hard not to. Hard to remember _this_ man as the cheerful, almost annoyingly energetic, boy who would tag along so faithfully after his older brother.

Dennis Creevey, although not extremely tiny, never grew to be a large man – neither tall or bulky. And with his dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, and soft spoken voice you might expect him to fade into the background.

But, oh he never would.

He had a quiet intensity. In all of the years he’s taught Oliver has never heard of his fellow professor raising his voice, he hasn’t needed to. When he talks, you want to listen. You feel that if you aren’t, you are missing out on a vital life lesson.

And this is all so very intimidating for Oliver now when he wants to tell him something. When he finally wants to get this off his conscious after all of these years.

Those sharp eyes seem to sense his stare and come up from the book they were reading and skewer him for his unwelcome intrusion. Starting this all of on the wrong foot before even a word is spoken.

And there haven’t really been many words spoken between them in the past either. Dennis is _not_ a social person. Millicent seems to be the only odd exception to this rule and Oliver doesn’t even want to touch how to classify _that_ relationship.

The only people he might consider Dennis’ friends are Susan and Padma. And that only occurred after repeated forced exposure due to the monthly Head of House meetings. As well as, all of the times the various Heads of Houses had to speak on manners pertaining to issues with certain students and inter-House conflicts.

So, even after working and living in the same building with the man for decades now, Oliver has only _barely_ reached friendly acquaintance levels with him.

But now Dennis’ glare is becoming even more irritated the longer he simply stands in the man’s classroom doorway. So, Oliver tries to say what he came here to tell him – what it’s taken him so long to get up the courage to let him know.

“Dennis,” he starts walking into the room. And even _that_ feels weird because they are _not_ on first name basis, but to call him _Creevey_ with the rest what he wants to say….

“I-I, it’s,” Oliver stumbles. He had this all planned out (had discussed it with Parvati many times) but saying this while having the other man simply watch him flatly is incredibly difficult. “I was there that night,” he gets out. “With the Battle and – and when your brother....I carri-”

“Stop, Wood,” Dennis interrupts him quietly rising from his chair. “Stop talking, right fucking now.”

“But-,” Oliver tries to continue, tries to explain.

“No,” Dennis says laying his hands flat on the desk for a second with his head bent and takes a deep breath. When he looks up his eyes are blazing but his voice never raises above a whisper.

“I’m finally living, Wood. Living and _not_ just surviving. Do you know how _long_ that took me? How many years to not fucking hate _all_ of you people?” he asks.

He rounded his desk and Oliver had to stop himself from backing up a step at the smaller mans intensity.

“I still don’t know why the Hat made me Head of Gryffindor,” Dennis continued standing only a few feet from him, “because I am _not_ selfless and I am certainly _not_ brave. My brother is dead, Oliver,” he stated bluntly and his jaw clenched, “and I have finally buried him. I am not going to let you dig him up just so _you_ can get shit off _your_ chest and have some closure. Deal with your own life and let me deal with mine.”

They simply stared at each other for a long moment. Oliver had no idea what to say.

Dennis broke the silence. “I would prefer it if you left now,” he pointed at the door.

It seemed to take a beat for the meaning of the words to sink into Oliver's brain. He didn’t want to just go. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to try to explain again.

He wanted to make it all _better_ somehow.

So Oliver did what was probably best for Dennis, he didn’t say a word and he simply left the classroom.


	14. Grand Insight Aside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

He turned it over slowly in his hands. It was a gorgeous piece of work – Draco knew just enough about the particulars behind his Father’s hobby to know that. But, he couldn’t – they couldn’t.....

“You can’t give this to her,” he said still staring at the diary.

“Why ever not Draco? Your father obviously put a lot of effort into that book. I would think that would be the sort of thing Fred would appreciate. She has always been fascinated with watching him-,” his mother started.

“Ginerva Potter – previously Weasley – is Luna’s best friend,” he said quietly. And even though he never raised his voice, the words cut across the room sharply. Still holding the book and refusing to raise his gaze, he heard her indrawn breath and the way his father (always so silent after the War) clutched the arms of his chair until they creaked.

“Oh,” Narcissa said, nearly a whisper.

Because it would be idiotic to pretend like they didn’t know what he was talking about. None of them had forgotten – would ever forget what their family did. And although that hadn’t been a case of _directly_ harming her....the way she had been controlled (an 11 year old girl at the time) and her life force siphoned off....Well, it definitely qualified as one of the darker things the Malfoy family was responsible for doing in the name of the Dark Lord.

Draco finally looked up as he heard sudden movement. Lucius had gotten up and was walking towards him, he grabbed the book to take back but Draco held on.

“Father,” he said. “I-“ he stumbled a bit, “if it was anything but a diary,” he tried to explain.

Because he didn’t know how to say how much it meant to him. That his parent’s were trying with this. That his mother, no matter how much she wanted Luna and him to get married and there to be a Malfoy heir, still did not withhold her own Slytherin brand of love from Fred.

That Lucius, so obviously damaged that he barely seemed the same person Draco remembered as a child, not only registered and acknowledged the girl but accepted her as well. Had made her this intricately designed journal for her graduation from _Muggle_ college.

“Maybe- maybe you could _teach_ her?” he tried. “She has always asked, always been curious…..” he trailed off because this might be asking too much. He had seen how much this had become a bizarre and very private refuge for his father. And Draco knew that Lucius’ own grandfather had been the one to teach him.

Lucius stared at him for a long moment, those grey eyes, so like his own, utterly unfathomable. But Draco kept eye contact and willed his Father to understand, not to close down. Not for this to cause him to shut his son’s new family out.

And finally the older man nodded, pulled the book from his hand, and turned to leave the room.

On the way out, from her still seated position, Narcissa reached out and caught his arm. Their eyes met and Lucius’ hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing it in a brief sporadic movement of his hand that heedlessly wrinkled her impeccable shawl.

Then he was gone.

There was something very real about their movements – utterly un-choreographed. Natural. Almost casual, if you could call anything a Malfoy did casual. It was probably one of the most intimate moments between his parents that Draco had ever witnessed. The wordless passing of comfort and reassurance that seemed so much like an interaction he might have with Luna.

Draco had always thought of his parent’s relationship (whenever he did think about it) as one of the pureblood arranged marriages that actually worked relatively well. Much better than many he had witnessed growing up. But, he had never really considered the fact that sleeping in the same bed, living in the same house, eating nearly every meal together for years now – there was comfort and familiarity.

They had weathered so many changes together within themselves and their world. His mother had adjusted chameleon-like, as she always seemed to - even flourishing at this point in her life as he had never witnessed her before. While his father, well his father was such a different person now than the man he had grown up idolizing – however unwisely. But Draco respected that brokenness in an odd way just as much, if not more than the proud coldness of before (especially given what that lead to).

But although they certainly couldn’t be the same Lucius and Narcissa that first met, they had an understanding of each other that no one on the planet could even begin to match.

It was startling realization for Draco that his parent’s marriage might have started out as arranged but, they….they actually _loved_ each other.

He let out a breath and his mother turned to him, smiling faintly and he could almost swear she looked a bit misty eyed. But her voice when she spoke was utterly collected.

“Well then, that still leaves our gift to determine,” she tilted her head contemplatively. “Do you think she would like one of those Muggle contraptions - cars? I believe I heard Rose say something about hybrids the other day,” she stated quite seriously.

And Draco could only stare and try to mentally shift back into the frame of mind to talk with his mother. Because he might not know a lot about the Muggle world himself, but he was pretty sure that only his mother (grand insight about his parent’s relationship aside) would consider a car to be the natural replacement for a hand-made diary.


	15. Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: These drabbles won't always be in strict chronological order.  
> A/N 2: Yes, I have started these again, but I won't be posting them regularly like I was doing the last two batches. Just a fair warning.  
> A/N 3: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She awakens with strong arms around her and the smell of coconut tickling her nose. Ginny opens her eyes to a curtain of wet blonde hair.

It’s amazing and a lot of the time she’s not sure if she can trust the feeling. It’s so very tentative (like a bubble inside of her that is so full that it must burst soon), because – because she’s _happy_. Ginny is now truly fully happy in her life.

“Time to wake up,” a smiling slightly pink face says, hovering over her from where she is sitting on the edge of their bed in a towel. And for a second her whole body tenses. All a dream. This wonderful life she has now is all a dream. She is still in bed living a half life with Harry. Perhaps even father back, still in bed waiting for her mother to yell for her to get up and come down for breakfast – this magnificent vision of a possible future of a complicated jumble of war, kids, friends, family and lovers is all going to fade away in a moment.

She holds her breath.

Still above her Katie sighs and shakes her head, she leans down and kisses her breaking her out of her panic, heedless of morning breath (hallucinations don’t use tongue, right?). When she breaks away she whispers, “Come on, Gin. Get out of bed, it’s your turn in the shower. Your gonna end up waking up Angie.”

“Too late for that,” she hears a voice behind her say scratchily and the warm arms around her stomach, tighten.

She turns around within the confines that refuse to loosen up for her movement, skin gliding over skin because those familiar callused hands always seem to sneak under her baggy hand-me-down shirts at night, until she is face to face with Angelina who still hasn’t opened her eyes.

“Sorry,” she says, no longer whispering. “I know you stayed late cleaning up at the Club. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Angelina only chuckles snuggling even closer somehow. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sticking to my plan to be lazy this morning. You’re the one who still has to get out of bed and get ready for your date,” she teases.

Ginny sighs theatrically pulling away to flop back on the pillow, making Katie who was still propped above her fall on top of them both. After oophs of surprise and giggles Angie lets go of her the rest of the way and latches on to Katie octopus-like with both her arms and legs. “See. I even have a replacement giant teddy bear, slash human hot water bottle. Now scoot or you’re going to be late again,” she chides.

Ginny did as she was told listening to the half-heartedly struggling Katie and stubbornly determined Angie bickering as she picked out her clothes and made her way to the bathroom.

“But I need to-,“ she heard Katie start as she tried to get up, adjusting her towel.

“Nope,” Angie cut her off, pulling her back down into bed. “Mine.”

“But-,” the blonde frowned as her legs got tangled in the sheets and the towel slid again.

“Mine,” she repeated decisively nuzzling the other woman’s neck.

Katie gave a sigh, pulled the towel off completely and tossed it off the side of the bed, and settled more comfortably under the covers. “Just for ten minutes,” she warned.

“Sure,” Angie chuckled.

“I hate you,” Katie huffed brushing back one of decades long lover’s braids from where it laid across her forehead before wrapping her arms snuggly around her waist.

“No you don’t,” she responded with absolute surety.

There was a long pause of comfortable Saturday morning silence. “Maybe a little longer than ten minutes,” Katie admitted, her voice sounding quite a bit heavier.

“Uh huh,” Angie hummed simply in sleepy agreement.

Ginny closed the door to the bathroom quietly with a smile on her face.

She loved her life.

***

And she was late anyway.

Luna and Harry didn’t mind. In a round a bout way it suited her purposes, she was making a dramatic entrance for the press by sleeping in, being lazy, and having the two of them sit around chatting for twenty minutes and possibly changing the current gossip.

She wondered what the headlines would read tomorrow.

The paparazzi to them had become something you just live with – and occasionally learn to play. Harry, Luna, and her always meet up for lunch in public because it caused the press to go into a frenzy. There were now persistent headlines that the actual relationship going on was between the three of them. ( _"The Loony, The Gryffs, and ‘The Closet’ – Finally! The True Scandalous Relationship Revealed!"_ )

And that always makes them laugh because somehow despite all of the convoluted drama that is their lives they are each others’ best friends – but so not each others’ types. It’s funny in a way because they have all actually slept with each other at one time or another now, except for Luna and her. Which is odd really, because the two of them have known each other forever and seeing as she ended up ultimately in a lesbian threesome relationship and Luna is the most curious and open person in the world, you would have thought they might have done some experimenting.

(But when they were younger all she was thinking about was playing outside and the Hero Harry Potter. Luna’s mind was occupied with magical creatures and what was beyond the Veil. And Harry was a bit caught up with tying not to get the shit kicked out of him by his relatives and the cold laughter before the flash of green light in his dreams. Priorities and all that.)

Ginny enjoys these lunches completely outside the media attention though – which frankly she could definitely do without if she had the choice, it has done much (much much) more harm than good in all of their lives over the years. It is the conversation, the company, that she truly treasures.

She loves her family. Really, she does. But, perhaps not so strangely, the three of them, their significant others, and the children they have all produced feel closer to her than most of her blood.

The prevailing feeling throughout the Wizarding World growing up was the importance of heritage, ancestry, almost pedigree really. Taken too far – of having pure blood.

None of them taught their children that way and she thinks that most children growing up these days lack that upbringing as well. Their nuclear family is a hodgepodge of not-really-but-almost-barely-accepted groupings . But Ginny certainly has contact more often, talks more, with these people than by those that are “accepted”.

She tried things the way they were _supposed_ to be. The way everyone seemed to want her to live.

It didn’t work.

Ginny sets down her purse on the table and hugs both Harry and Luna before sitting down (ignoring the flurry of camera flashes this action produces). The waiter comes over instantly and takes their order overenthusiastically, watching them with wide, fascinated eyes the entire time.

They talk comfortably about their kids and her brother’s joke shop. When their food come they pick off each other’s plates out of easy habit (something else that causes an amusing amount of undue interest from the media).

Ginny likes her life now. No, not just like. _Loves._ She feels whole.

And it’s _not_ a dream.


End file.
